Grace At Spirit Lake

MUSTFUL

Copyright © 2014 Colin Mustful.

Illustrated by Bennett Berning

Edited by Jennifer Quinlan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1265-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1264-1 (e)

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Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 6/17/2014

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

FORMING AN EXPEDITION

A FATAL MISTAKE

CHASING INKPADUTA

FRONTIER ALARM

INDIAN GAMES

RESCUE OF MRS. MARBLE

ABBIE’S CEREMONY

ABBIE’S RESUCE AND INDIAN HUMOR

UNKNOWN LODGE

SOLDIER’S EXPEDITION FROM FORT RIDGELY

DISCOVERING THE CULPRITS

RETURN TO THE AGENCY

SPECIAL AGENT KINTZING PRITCHETTE

PAYMENT WITHHELD

REBUKED AS A HALF-BREED

MEETING COLONEL LEE

ELIZA GARDNER

ATTACK ON SPRINGFIELD

INTERVIEW WITH ABBIE

THE SPIRIT LAKE MASSACRE

FINAL INTERVIEW WITH ABBIE

GRACE AT SPIRIT LAKE

EPILOGUE

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ENDNOTES

DEDICATION

To my friend and former co-worker Dan Snyder;

a history major, just like me.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Rachelle Kuehl

Brandon Mustful

Sean Beggin

Ryan Parsons

Jessica Mustful

Jennifer Quinlan

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Let me try and explain myself. This is neither a historical fiction novel nor a work of narrative nonfiction. It is both. Throughout the book there are elements of historical fiction and narrative nonfiction. If you begin with the expectation that it is one or the other, you will be disappointed. Historical fiction and narrative nonfiction are both effective means of conveying history, but I have sought to capture and utilize the best qualities of both forms in order to tell this story. Using these means, both fiction and nonfiction, I have placed myself within the history as I observed it through primary and secondary source materials. But in order to do this I needed a vehicle. That vehicle is Antoine Joseph Campbell, the main character and narrator. Antoine Joseph Campbell was a central figure of the events which followed the Spirit Lake Massacre of 1857. At the time of the events he was 31 years old, which also happens to be my own age (at the time of writing this). It is conceivable that his views would not be much unlike my own. Therefore, I used Antoine Joseph Campbell as my own eyes and ears. I did not much embellish his involvement in the history, but utilized his participation as a means to insert not just his thoughts and emotions, but also my own thoughts, feelings, and observations regarding this part of our history. I did not do this in a selfish and self-serving manner, but rather as an objective means to provoke thoughtful discussion and reaction.

I don’t know what can be gleaned from this part of our history. But I think it is important that we know. I think it is important that we become educated to the whole story, to each perspective, and to the entire context. Every character in this book is real and the majority of events are historically accurate. This story is an introduction to your history, what you do with it is up to you.

You don’t know me. We’ve never met. You have not read about me. My name is on no one’s lips. Even if you happened to come across my name it was insignificant enough that you did not notice or remember. But that does not mean I was not important. It does not mean that I do not have a story to tell. Rather, it is quite the opposite. That is why I am here today. That is why I have transcended time to be here. Because I do have a story to tell. A story you’ve never heard. It is a story that occurred years before your time. This story left an indelible stamp on your past and a permanent mark on your future. You don’t see it; you can’t hear it; you’ve never even thought about it. I wish I could say you forgot, but the fact is you were never told. It’s history—it’s your history. I want to share that history with you. I want to tell you a story.

Before I begin I suppose it would be prudent to introduce myself. My name is Antoine Joseph Campbell. Most people refer to me as Joseph, some refer to me as A.J., after my grandfather, but no one refers to me as Antoine, except perhaps my father. I was born in 1826 at Mendota, which lay just across the river from Fort Snelling. I am the eldest of four sons. I also have two older sisters and two younger sisters. My grandfather came to this territory in the mid-18th century. Archibald John Campbell was his name. He was a Scottish-born, French-speaking trader who settled at Prairie du Chien. He married a Dakota woman named Ninse, my grandmother. The relationship between my grandparents forged the necessary kinship ties that were essential for trade between the Europeans and the Natives. At the time, Prairie du Chien was the center of the northwest frontier. For my grandfather and the surrounding Natives, it was the center of the world. It was a meeting place where Indians brought their furs and Europeans brought their goods. Each spring the area was teeming with activity as traders tried to woo Indians and Indians sought to woo traders, each for access to more and higher-quality goods. Neither sought to change the other, they simply wanted what the other had to offer.

My grandparents had five children together. My father, Scott, was the second eldest. He grew up between two distinct and rich cultures. He learned the value of a good pelt from his father and how to become useful in the fur trade. But he also learned the ways of his Dakota mother. He spoke Dakota well and he knew how to hunt for goods and for food. My father’s knowledge and expertise of both cultures earned him a position with the U.S. Government. In 1819 my father left Prairie du Chien. The fur trade was declining and the frontier was moving west. My father took a job at Fort St. Anthony (which later became Fort Snelling) as the interpreter for the newly appointed Indian agent Lawrence Taliaferro. Taliaferro was a major in the U.S. military and a veteran of the War of 1812. He was a cunning, intelligent man who sought to establish a government presence in the northwest. Taliaferro was a young man from Virginia and he knew very little of Indian affairs. Thusly, Taliaferro leaned heavily on my father’s advice and knowledge. My father was instrumental in establishing and sustaining the credibility of the agency with the Dakota. In 1825, my father played a crucial role in the signing of the Treaty of Prairie du Chien, which identified specific tribal areas for living and for hunting. He drew on tribal connections and he understood the negotiations needed in order to reach an agreement.

But before long, things changed as they were apt to do in this part of the world and at this junction in history. By the mid-1830s, eastern missionaries began to settle in the area. This started with Samuel and Gideon Pond, who settled along the shores of Mde Maka Ska (otherwise known as Lake Calhoun) and founded a school. They were followed post haste by missionaries Thomas S. Williamson and Stephen R. Riggs. My father assisted these men with necessary language instruction so that they could translate scripture. The missionaries were devout people who gave their lives to the service of God and the Dakota, but they also ushered in a new era to the territory. They ushered in an era of conflict and change; one of cultural misunderstanding. This cultural collision was then aggravated by men like Henry Hastings Sibley who arrived in the territory in 1834. Sibley was a young, ambitious fur trader from Detroit. He immediately inserted himself into the political, economic, and social structure of the area. He made certain that things would never be as they once were. But I digress.

Like the treaty of Prairie du Chien in 1825, my father played a vital role in the 1837 treaty of St. Peter. In this treaty, the Dakota agreed to sell their lands east of the Mississippi River thereby opening the land to white settlement. This treaty set Indian removal into law and was a precursor for things to come. Taliaferro left his post at Fort Snelling in 1839, which gave way for Sibley and other traders to establish their own devices and methods. My father stayed on with the new agent Amos J. Bruce, but things were never quite the same. Corruption and neglect increasingly found their way into the territory and my father started drinking. In 1843 he was dismissed. He was unhappy and intemperate until he passed away in 1850.

My mother was a mixed-blood, just as my father. She was the daughter of a Menominee mother and a French-Ojibwe trader named Louis Menagre. In life she became a trusted companion and advisor to the great Indian Chief Little Crow. The two were related by blood. My mother lived well into old age, not passing away until 1900.

I lived a rich childhood. I had the advantage of growing up in two worlds. I admired my father and partook in all dealings which he allowed. I had a formal education and discovered a deep faith in God through Catholicism. When I was not mimicking my father or when I was not delved in study I was frolicking with the Indian boys at Kaposia. Kaposia was Little Crow’s Indian village. All of my fondest memories originate from this place. The village was set among the pristine waters of the bending Mississippi and lay just below the white cliffs of Imnejah-skah, otherwise known as Pig’s Eye. It was a beautiful landscape filled with activity. Every spring, traders announced their arrival with the chanting of French melodies. For weeks they turned Kaposia into a bustling marketplace dealing goods such as blankets, kettles, beads, needles, bolts of cloth, silk handkerchiefs, steel awls, thread, and whatever else you can imagine. The summers were a warm, happy time. Games were played continually while boys challenged each other with countless feats of strength and bravery. Feats with the bow and arrow, foot and pony races, wrestling and swimming. I came to envy the full-blooded Indian boys for their care-free nature. It seemed that when circumstances were favorable, the Indians were the happiest people in the world. I admired them also for their skill and knowledge and dedication toward learning. Their knowledge was passed down from generation to generation. Boys practiced daily the skills of their fathers and learned to listen and recite the stories of their elders. They even studied the animals to acknowledge their sensible habits and to discover how they might outwit them. The Indian way of life was indeed remarkable to me.

I was fortunate to grow up as I did among two distinct and rich cultures. Almost without realizing I learned to speak English, French, Dakota, Menominee, and even some Ojibwe. I was adaptable in a world that was constantly adapting. As soon as I was old enough I took a job as a clerk in St. Paul. I married at age nineteen a beautiful woman named Mary Ann Dalton. Mary was from Indiana and she traveled in Yankee social circles. I never met anyone quite like Mary; I think that is what drew me to her. We lived in a house right next door to my parents and family who were dear to us. We spent five years in this way. But after the death of my father in 1850, dramatic changes followed. In 1851, the Mdewakanton and Wahpekute signed the treaty of Mendota in which they relinquished their lands west of the Mississippi and with it my beloved Kaposia. The Dakota agreed to settle onto a reservation ten miles wide along either side of the Minnesota River. This of course meant rapid settlement for the areas surrounding St. Paul and St. Anthony. It also signified a major loss for the culture and way of life of the Dakota Indians. The Indians viewed life on a government reservation as physical and moral degradation. For a people who were once as free as the birds around them, a change to reservation life caused great suffering. But such was the case for the Dakota who, just since the time of my birth, were relegated onto smaller and smaller tracts of land. And with it came increased government intervention, dwindling game, and religious and cultural scrutiny.

I chose to take my family and move with my Dakota kin to the new reservation. Two of my brothers and I took work at the agency trading post run by Nathan and Andrew Myrick. My wife ran a boarding house while we sent our two daughters to receive a formal education in St. Paul.

Life on the Agency was never perfect. It was nothing like my days as a boy when surrounded by wilderness and when Indians vastly outnumbered whites. Frame houses replaced dwellings made of bark and hide and farming replaced the hunt. But we managed to make a living and the whites and Indians lived relatively peaceably side by side. I worked alongside the whites but I maintained strong kinship ties with my native friends and relatives. With my knowledge of languages I was found to be quite useful around the agency. Following in the footsteps of my father, I took work as the Government Interpreter.

But I have said enough. Now that we have met my story can begin. I know this story because I lived it. The year was 1857.

FORMING AN EXPEDITION

July 12, 1857 - - Gentlemen! Please! shouted Major Cullen with hands raised.

I repeated his words in Dakota, but surely no one heard me over the commotion.

Major Cullen lowered his hands to his hips, tilted his head and scowled in an impatient manner.

Gentlemen I beg of you, please settle yourselves, he hollered once more. It is upon your own benefit that we reach a peaceful accord.

Major Cullen was the newly appointed Superintendent of Indian Affairs. His physical appearance was not imposing. He was short and thin and he often behaved in a smug and pretentious way. He spared no manner of eloquence either in diction or in dress no matter whether it was the Indians of the frontier or the President of these United States. He continued to stand in a pompous and impatient fashion in front of the thousands of Mdewakanton and Wahpekute Indians of the Lower Agency. He wore an elaborate overcoat, a distinct and colorful sash and he had garishly well-groomed facial hair. All of it seemed quite unnecessary. Major Cullen was a military man. Though diminutive in size he was brash in character. He knew how to take orders and how to give them out. He lacked no courage. What he did lack was tact. He was direct in a rather distasteful manner. He had little or no knowledge of the Dakota Indians or their way of life. His position was a political appointment no doubt acquired through the friend of a friend who never once considered the unique social climate of the northwestern frontier. I did not disrespect the Superintendent; for his job was an unenviable one, but I doubt if he could sit down and give a succinct, logical and intelligent description of the difference between the habits, manners, customs, and peculiarities of a Dakota Indian and a snapping turtle.

Sirs, calm yourselves! shouted Major Cullen.

At this point I was no longer translating the Major word for word. I was pleading with the Dakota men just as he was. But the Indian commotion was assiduous and unrelenting.

Suddenly there was a hush; an immediate and absolute silence fell over the crowd of hungry and frustrated Dakota Indians.

I searched the new setting with stunned curiosity over this abrupt development. And then I saw him and my curiosity turned to realization. Of course, I thought to myself, who else could have such a profound impact on the men of the Lower Agency? It was Little Crow.

Little Crow was the undisputed Chief of the Mdewakanton Dakota Indians. He was the third in a line of Crows who led his people. He had a strong posture, a distinct face, and a calm demeanor. On this occasion he wore traditional Dakota dress with moccasins, leggings wrapped with long-hanging weasel skin, and a buckskin shirt garnished with extremely long fringes. His hair was parted down the middle and hung down over his shoulders and held tight to his head by a woven sash that had three large eagle feathers tied into the back. Although his age was unknown to me, I considered him to be in his forties. He is a blood relative to my family, though the exact relation is difficult to determine. We called each other cousin.

In your reluctance you gain nothing, Little Crow said assuredly from where he now stood in front of the crowd. This wasichu chief was sent here by our Great Father, Little Crow continued as he turned just slightly toward Major Cullen. I have traveled many moons and seen our Great Father. He has great wealth and will provide for us much like the buffalo provided for our fathers. But we must listen to his white children or like the buffalo we too will fade away. This is all I have to say.

The crowd was silent as Little Crow slipped back into the sea of Indians as quickly and quietly as he had appeared. Reverence for the great Dakota leader now hovered over the massive assembly.

I will proceed then, said Major Cullen in the same poised manner as he always spoke. I believe you know why you have been called here today. One of your own, the insidious Inkpaduta and his band of renegade Wahpekute are loose on the frontier and wreaking much havoc upon the settlers of the area. He and his small band have perpetrated the Spirit Lake Massacre, killing some forty settlers along the frontier.

He paused to let his words take effect. It took only moments for shouts of discontent to rise once more out of the great multitude before me.

This band belongs to your people, continued Major Cullen as he raised his voice to quell the shouts. As long as Inkpaduta roams free the citizens of the United States are not safe. As such, he and his band must be captured and summarily punished, he stated with one fist held forward. I translated his words as directly as I could although I felt uneasy doing so. Despite their discontent Major Cullen had their attention.

Now, I have been instructed by my superiors in Washington City, Major Cullen said in a more explanatory tone, to withhold your annuities … and with that the crowd erupted in anger.

The shouts came from men, women, and children alike who together vehemently protested this unfortunate information. Major Cullen could do nothing but wait as the crowd expelled its acrimony on the man in front of them. Major Cullen showed no fear, but only annoyance. I cringed at the deafening volume and only wished it would stop.

After what seemed like several minutes, the crowd began to quiet even though they appeared in no way bankrupt of discontent.

Gentlemen, I can hear your protests, but you have no choice in the matter, Major Cullen shouted with his first display of any real human quality. I too have no choice in the matter. I am helpless toward you and therefore your shouts are useless. I have been instructed to withhold your annuities until you yourselves have apprehended the villain Inkpaduta and his men.

Shouts continued to spew from the crowd but this time they were quickly silenced by the Wahpeton chief Mazaomani who raised his hands to speak.

You say Inkpaduta is one of ours, but he is not.

The crowd was attentive and listened.

He lives south. He battles with the Sac and Fox. We have not seen the Scarlet Point for many seasons. Why does the Great Father punish us for his deeds?

The crowd hooted and hollered in agreement. Their calls were shrill and loud.

It is true Inkpaduta did not take part in the treaty of 1851, replied Major Cullen forthrightly, but he did receive annuities in 1855 and 1856. Furthermore, and more importantly, the agent was reluctant to pay, but you Dakota spoke up for Inkpaduta. You argued that his blood ties and marriage ties entitled him to the payment. Do you now alter your position out of personal prejudice?

Those who backed Inkpaduta only did so because they feared Inkpaduta’s revenge if they did not, answered Mazaomani forcefully.

It matters … Major Cullen paused while he waited for the commotion to recede. It matters not why. You must be held responsible for the lawless characters of your nation. In view of this responsibility I would advise you to formulate some means by which you can apprehend Inkpaduta. Major Cullen again spoke in a manner both plain and straightforward. He appeared unmoved by the shouts of indignation directly in front of him.

Mazaomani gave no reply but just disappeared into the crowd. For several moments the Dakota raised their protest, this time less commanding than before but bullish